Brotherly Love
by my birthday cake
Summary: They say that if you spent enough with someone, you would eventually fall in love. She felt that they lied to her, especially since the man she loved since she was four at Happy Tots Nursery was gay.
1. Dirty Little Secrets

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Brotherly Love

_A Sailor Moon Fanfiction_

_By My Birthday Cake_

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_A/N: I know that I've done this before, and by being the forgetful spaz that I always am, I forgot the password to my previous account due to the fact that I haven't touched my account in a year. Sue me. But I am making it up to you by continuing on with this story. _

_Summary: They say that if you spent enough with someone, you would eventually fall in love. She felt that they lied to her, especially since the man she loved since she was four at Happy Tots Nursery was gay._

* * *

_Part One : Dirty Little Secrets_

They say that if you spent enough time with someone, you would eventually fall in love. It was some unwritten rule that fueled the invention of arranged marriages. They also say that kind of love is the one I would want when I'm seventy, smelling of mentholated somethings, and I had more grandchildren than I had fingers. Whoever thought of this bullshit love theory must have never loved.

Otherwise, he would know that love couldn't outlive time.

Love couldn't outlive society and sexuality.

Love was a flimsy, fragile thing – especially when that man you loved since you were four at Happy Tots Nursery was gay.

The man I loved had probably more interest in my elder brother than me.

I grew up with this man. I loved him. I knew this love well.

What I didn't know was that I was loved by another.

A man that lived in a little, black book.

* * *

"_What are you going to be when you grow up, Darien?"_

_I was thirteen. He was thirteen, and we were underneath our favorite place in the entire world._

_The swing sets at Colapinto Park. _

_It was sunset, and I stole a glance from Darien as he slowly swung._

_Darien Shields was a beautiful male specimen even at thirteen. He was taller than most boys our age, but lanky and awkward. Ebony strands fell across his eyes, and when he smiled, you knew he was genuinely content because they were scrunch tightly. When he laughed, you could feel his laughter underneath your skin, crawling everywhere as if it was him, and he was touching you. But I shouldn't really be thinking of him like this. I couldn't because . . . _

"_I want to be someone's wife." _

_Because of that. _

_He was gay. _

_He told me he was gay on his birthday a few days ago. It was shock, but somehow I pieced together every odd thing about Darien. He would always do what I do, followed me around, dressed in the same room together, play my feminine games. He had no other friends beside me, and he didn't allow other people to touch me. _

_I mean, I didn't really mind when we were younger in kindergarten. He would play teaparty with me while the other boys ran around, mud-covered and enjoying tormenting the girls with their perverseness. At times, we would part-take in house, and I would be the husband and Darien, the wife. Now that I knew about his secret, we would rate classroom boys from one to ten. He had crushes, and I had crushes. Sometimes, we would be interested in the same boy. But I had never done anything about those crushes; I felt as if I would betray Darien if I gave my heart to another man. I thought Darien and mine's relationship was perfectly normal, ordinary. _

_Then again, how many boys can give you a professional manicure? _

_I stared at my cherry-red converse, contemplating. _

"_Oh. Me too." _

_It was all I could say. I couldn't tell him that I wanted to be his wife, that when I grew up, I wanted to have his children and grow old with him. He would have a seizure or something and then avoid me like a leper. Life without Darien isn't much of anything at all, and I would sacrifice my heart just to be next to him my entire life. _

"_Serena. If neither of us gets married, ever, if no man wants us, I'll marry you. We can die old together, albeit, you're not my ideal man, but you are my soulmate. We are closer than a man and man could ever be, and that's enough for the rest of my life." _

_When he says things like that, I sincerely believed he preferred me above anyone else, man or woman. _

_I couldn't say anything, and the tears started to fall. I swung higher and higher; the brisk air drying my tears. Yet, they came heavily down my face. I swung higher, so that I could reach the sky, the sun, and be relieved of all the pain. It was all unattainable, like he was, and after a while, I found my energy drained, and I couldn't swing anymore. I was dead tired of all the lies, and simply sat there, crying, moaning, gasping for air. _

_Darien watched me, sensing my pain, weaving his fingers through my cornstalk blond hair. He would always do that, and I felt at peace. _

_I turned to look at him, and I saw sadness and love in his eyes, but it wasn't the kind of love that I wanted. _

_I cried even harder, and he took me in his arms, nearly smothering me against his chest. He smelled good as usual, and his arms were warm around me. There wasn't enough air to breathe normally, but I didn't mind._

_This was the best way to die. _

_In the arms of the man you loved. _

* * *

He never did ask about the incident that happened when we were thirteen. He probably brushed it off as a womanly right of passage. We graduated high school, me with my unrequited feelings, and him hitting on every buffoon with a nice ass that crossed his path. Darien, of course, had more boyfriends and sex affairs than me because I never dated, had a boyfriend, or lost my virginity in some over-sexed, drinking party. No, I remained his. 

It was pretty pathetic to be pining over a queer man. Especially since Darien and I attended the same university, UC Berkeley, and lived in the same dorm which was specially pre-planned by my darling interfering father. I wonder if they know about Darien's dirty little secret yet.

Probably not.

And now we lived in an over-priced, small apartment in San Francisco. I was an interior designer which was pretty much useless in a city like San Francisco because after paying mortgage on your house, you wouldn't have enough money to pay for the inside of it. Darien Shields, my best, but not the only, gay buddy and target of my foolish, one-sided affections, was strangely a librarian at the San Francisco Public Library. I mean, when you think of librarian, the first thing that comes to your mind isn't a 6'4'' beautiful homosexual man, but a budding writer he was and eventually a renowned journalist.

We were both twenty five, and our love lives were in ruins. While Darien's sex life hasn't hindered once, his love life is nearly as desolate as mine. My love life is centered around making breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a man who will never look at me once in romantic way and watching the Nanny.

While Fran Fine has trouble looking for a nice, kosher Jewish husband, at least, Mr. Shetfield wasn't a homosexual British man.

No, instead I got the cowboy of the Village People.

I was watching Everyone Loves Raymond when I heard the door becoming unlocked and the familiar jingle of keys and Darien's voice. He apparently tore the door open and was wrestling something.

What if he was being mugged in his own apartment? I grabbed the vase his mother sent him for Christmas which I have to comment, was the ugliest thing I've seen. I pressed myself against the wall, looking over the corner to find Darien frenching some strange man I've never seen before.

"Oh my fucking god! Here I thought you were being mugged or assaulted by some creep. No, instead you're here, molesting some hot College piece of flesh you met at work! Darien Shields, if you weren't my best friend, I would have castrated you in your sleep. Look what you've done, now I don't have a reason to break this ugly vase! You're not getting any dinner from me, but I doubt you're hungry for that kind of thing since you got Don Juan sticking his tongue down your throat."

I marched off, throwing his vase at his head, attempting to give him a temporary concussion.

"I'm sorry, Darien. I don't think this is the right time for this, but call me on my cell phone. My wife is suspicious after five years."

I heard Darien bid him goodnight before strolling to the opposite side of the couch like a kicked puppy.

"If you hated that vase so much, I could have 'accidentally' knocked it out our window."

I still refused to look at him, despite the tempted little grin on my face.

"And what? Risk killing Ms. Ibbotson while she's rummaging through her ex-husband's trash?"

"It would have been an accident."

I handed him the carton of Ben and Jerry's Karamel Sutra and a spoon.

"You forgive me?" He looks up from the half-consumed carton.

"What other reason do I have in handing you ice cream named after a sex book?"

"That's my girl." Darien draws out his arms, and I accepted his embrace, happy while sitting on his lap, both scarfing down more ice cream than my thighs could handle. I was content like this, and I laid my head against his neck, looking up towards his face. Drowsy from the scent of his hair and my restless nights fantasizing of him and me in some Caribbean island, love-making on the sand, in the water, in the shower, in the bed, against a tree, inside a public bathroom, in a boat, anywhere where condoms are easily purchased, I planted a small kiss underneath his chin and slept.

A tormented look passed Darien's face, and his hand shook slightly, then clenched in a fist. His knuckles were exceedingly pale.

He buried his face in her hair and sighed wistfully.

"That's my girl."

* * *

"_Hey, Darien? Why do always write things in that book of yours?" _

_We were sixteen, hormonally charged, going through that James Dean stage in our lives. Of course, Darien wanted to screw anything with a hole, and I, his trusty, loyal best friend, stayed at his side. I sounded like Lassie. _

_Lassie died. _

_Not a good sign._

_We were in his bedroom. I was rummaging through his CD's, slipping the Ramones into my backpack. He wouldn't miss this anyways. There he was, sprawled on his bed, scribbling something in that journal of his. It was something he kept with him everywhere. I was jealous of that little book. I wouldn't mind Darien writing on me, perversely enough. _

_Darien murmured something incoherent as he continued to write, ignoring me. _

"_One day I'm going to leave you because of that book. Then you won't have anyone else to ignore. You will miss me, of course, but I can't do anything because I would have moved to Tahiti or something. Somewhere far, unknown, inhabitable, so you can't find me again. It' d be so romantically tragic."_

_He shot me a look, then closed his journal, tossing it underneath his bed. _

"_But love, I'm gay. I'm not romantic to anyone unless they have a foot-long schlong in his pants."_

_I covered my ears. I didn't want to hear my best friend make sex jokes._

"_Me and my virginal ears. You have defiled me." _

_I glared at him, and for a moment, he had a wistful look on his face. It was heart-wrenching to watch him so sad. _

"_Come here, Darien."_

_Uncharacteristically obedient, he walked from his bed to stand beside me._

"_This has something to do with Andrew, doesn't it? You've fallen for him, and he rejected you. Kiss me."_

_When did I become so bold that I would use my best friend's pain to earn me a few seconds of pleasure? When had I become so insensitive to Darien so I could kiss him once? The look on his face told me everything I needed to know. He was confused, bewildered, pained for some reason or another. I could read Darien like a book. He was my other half, unwillingly the man I give me heart to. _

"_Serena, what—?"_

_I hushed him with a finger. I was almost tempted to touch his lips; they were softer than most men. They intrigued me, but I need that kiss._

"_Kiss me as if I was Andrew. Let it all out. The anger, the passion, the pain--- let me have it all. This will make you feel better. I promise."_

_Before I could say anything else, his lips found mine in a brutal, punishing kiss. His lips shifted feverently against mine, and his tongue managed to brush against my own. I was lifted in his lap, and I could feel hardness brushing against me. His hands wound against my hair as it fought to keep inside the hair band, but it failed, and the hair fell in all its golden glory. We were completely covered in strands of gold. I was elevated higher than Darien because of our position, and his lips had to reach for mine in order to make contact. _

_I wanted to cry so badly then. I shouldn't have made him kiss me. This will always remain a constant reminder of what I cannot have. The first taste of sexuality and passion and love wound into one kiss. He is the man I cannot have._

_Alas, he released me, distressed and out-of-breath. His arms set me aside so I no longer straddled his lap. I missed the warmth, but it was all for the best. His fingers sifted through his luscious black hair, a nervous habit that became permanent. _

"_Look at you. Flushed. Why has no man ever ravished you before? Why are men so blind?" _

_I couldn't speak; Darien have always left speechless. He laughed despite this incident. Yet, it wasn't full of mirth or bliss; it was cold, spiteful laugh._

"_For a moment, I almost forgot I was gay. You could have lost your virginity to a homo, my foolish, little rabbit, and it would mean nothing to me. Everything to you, and that is something I cannot live with." _

_His words stung; I thought even for a little while that I could be seen as a desirable woman to him. _

_I closed the door, missing what Darien said afterwards._

"_Run, my little rabbit, before I devour you. I promised God that I would never touch you, and I'm afraid that I might break my promise to Him."_

_I left his room, fled his house, ran and ran, until I was at the park. There was the swing, the only constant thing in my life._

_I swung for hours, never really reaching the sky. _

_The day afterwards, all was ordinary again. He acted like he didn't take my heart, and I acted like I never let him. _


	2. Mr Black Book

_**Brotherly Love**_

_A Sailor Moon Fanfiction_

_By My Birthday Cake_

_

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A/N: I know that I've done this before, and by being the forgetful spaz that I always am, I forgot the password to my previous account due to the fact that I haven't touched my account in a year. Sue me. But I am making it up to you by continuing on with this story. _

_Summary: They say that if you spent enough with someone, you would eventually fall in love. She felt that they lied to her, especially since the man she loved since she was four at Happy Tots Nursery was gay._

_I dedicate this to my dear little pet monkey named Deedle. She has given me years of entertainment just by eating her dandruff.

* * *

_

_Part Two : Mr. Black Book_

Darien was working today at the library, leaving me alone in our apartment. I woke up this morning, tucked neatly in bed with a bad case of morning breath. I prepared my own breakfast, Lucky Charms with milk, by myself. I would make a lousy wife; while I make Darien's meals, I never said that my cooking was good. In actuality, my cooking stunk. I once sent Darien to the hospital due to undercooked chicken. Half of the time, I'm suspecting he's eating my food, so I won't fling his favorite thong out the window.

It was nearly Christmas time in San Francisco; every busybody was bustling around, buying toasters and slippers for their other half.

Here I was, sitting Indian style on salmon-colored floors, cutting out paper snowflakes.

It was a tradition that I had started since we were 13.

A childish tradition that Darien declared as "virginally endearing."

Bah. Hum-bug.

It was almost 11:30, and I was planning to surprise Darien with lunch made by me. I got to making cold, deli sandwiches and bought a white chocolate and macadamia cookie from the bakery across the street. I rushed to the bus stop and finally reached my destination: the San Francisco Public Library.

I loved the library.

The steps were so grand, compared to the smaller local library we had back home. They made me feel so small, and I took an even breath when I passed through the doors. Marshall, the security guard, inquired what Darien had to eat today, and I responded with "my home-made cooking." His face made a look of mock-disgust with a hint of pity, and I threw a can of Dr. Pepper at him, which he caught with a chuckle.

I climbed the monochrome stairway to the children's section of the library. Leaning against the entrance, I watched as Darien read Roald Dahl's "Matilda" to a group of children. He was wearing a pink princess hat, and behind the children were a hoard of love-struck mothers, sighing constantly. There were three times more mothers than children; I suspected most of them didn't even have kids there. I recognized Ann Morgan, his weekly, College stalker. She couldn't miss "Storytime with Homosexual Hunk." It was the only highlight of her day.

I unconsciously laughed at my inside joke. Darien stopped reading and searched for me. I spotted where I stood and pinned me with such a smoldering look. It was intense, and these were the times that I forget Darien was anything but a man, and I was truly a woman.

Of course, the so-called "mothers" were glaring menacingly at me, so I backed off, waved good-bye, and ran into a life-size card-board figure of Harry Potter, which fell to my dismay. The children were laughing at me in the distance, and I could hear Darien's rich laughter joining in with them.

Okay, so I wasn't the most graceful of people.

I decided to amuse myself in the section which had more adult literature.

I was strolling through Edgar Allen Poe's works when I found a little black book placed on top of the shelf, lost.

It had no title, no author. It was discreetly void of any writing.

Just black.

I languidly stroked the cover, and there was a familiar feel to it. I was acquainted with this book once.

I skimmed through the ivory-colored pages with hand-written words. It was someone's precious journal. While I knew it would be an invasion of privacy to read what was inside, I knew that my morals and curiosity would battle, and curiosity would win. I tucked myself in an inconspicuous, little corner, so no one would witness me committing this sin.

I opened to the first page.

_November 17, 2002_

_There she is, laughing with a man I cannot recognize, and I envy that man. He can be in her presence, desiring her, wanting to lock her up, keep her inside, make her his, without bearing some guilt or having this feeling that he is committing taboo. He can love her without it being a sin. I'm watching her though the windowpane of Starbucks, hoping she won't look this way and recognize the way my eyes never leave her. I'm clenching my fist with such vigor that when I open them, blood is in my fingernails. I simply wipe it away with a napkin. _

_God. I'm cursed. _

_I am in love with my sister._

_She doesn't know I am her brother; that naïve, beautiful girl brushes through my life as though I'm not tormented by how sweet she is and how much I want to kiss her. It started with my cursed father and his uncontrollable passion for women. My mother just wasn't enough to keep him tied to one woman, and one night, just after my birth, he screwed with a married woman, the wife of my father's business partner at the firm. That bastard fucked with his best friend's wife, and karma punishes me instead. _

_I grew up with her; even as a child, I was fiercely protective of her. I didn't want anybody to touch her, not a curious, little boy or a grubby, wailing girl. She was mine, and at times, I find that I hate her for being so blind to ignore me. _

_Maybe, she was too accustomed to my presence. I was her second skin, and she was the girl I was never meant to have. I didn't know of my father's infidelity until I was thirteen, on my own birthday; she was twelve still, looking sweet with her waist-long hair curving her round behind. Even then I was hungry for her. I meant to tell her of my love on my birthday. No, instead I caught my father and her mother in an angry verbal war. _

"_She is your child." She said. _

_I collapsed, my knees gave out, and I cried silent tears. I clutched my hair, wanting desperately to pull it out. Her mother stormed out the room; Father, so very poised, left the room without a word, elegant and cold and deceitful like he always was. In their own anger, they didn't see me, crouched, head hung in defeat, with tears that refused to stop. _

_She doesn't belong to me. I could never have her. _

_She was my half-sister; my blood ran through her veins. My love for her would only remain in the confines of this book, and she would never know of it. _

_Still in the hallway, small hands covered my eyes, and her faint, restrained laughter could be heard from behind me. This was the beginning of a habit that would never stop: my fingernails dug into my palm, as my fist clenched tighter. _

_She asked me if I knew who she was, and I almost laughed at the stupidity of her question. If I was a blind man, I could still sense her even without her voice or the touch of her hand. She was very much a part of me. _

_It took all my strength for me not to embrace her, even as she laughed, as she talked nonsensically about little things that didn't matter, as she tempted me to commit sin._

_I wanted nothing more to grab her, lock her in a cage, and keep her mine. _

_I wanted nothing more than to claim her as mine._

_My own sister. _

_Dirty, little me. _

"Serena!" Darien's distant shout broke me away from this literal reverie. As if I was caught doing something wrong, I slid the black book in my carrier bag.

I was doing something wrong. I was intruding into a man's greatest passion, his illicit thoughts about the woman he loved. I was intruding in a forbidden love affair, and despite my guilt, I could not stop after the first page, after the first sentence written. I couldn't close the book because I was enthralled by it all.

I was captivated by this complex man that barely existed.

I looked up from my position on the floor. There was Darien, flushed from looking for me, his reading glasses on the tip of his nose, looking more dashing than ever. I sighed. Why could I be in love with a less attractive homosexual?

"Darien! Aren't you supposed to be reading fairytales to a bunch of 30-something single women?"

He shot me an "I'm-not-amused-by-your-wry-comments" look and kissed me on the cheek.

"So where's my lunch?"

Even after years of being an adult, Darien could be such a baby, an adorable, sexy, sweet baby. I handed him his sandwiches and gourmet cookie, and we sat at the café inside the library. It was our routine everyday, sitting here, talking about useless, small things, and I enjoying his company while he rather be sitting next to that attractive College student four tables from us. Yet, today, my thoughts were preoccupied by the man in the little black book. Darien seemed to notice.

"Darling, is something wrong? You're more . . . distant today."

I murmured, "I'm thinking of a man."

I could sense his body tensing, and he set his sandwich down, half-eaten, now forgotten. I looked at him briefly, from his grave expression to the coldness of his stare. He wasn't smiling, but maybe Darien was shocked from all my years of celibacy. I've never dated another man, nor publicized any interest in one. All the years it was only Darien.

"A man?"

His voice was gruff, laced with suppressed anger.

"Never mind. It really isn't a big deal."

Then he shot up from his mono-chrome chair, causing a boisterous sound of metal against tiles. A few heads were looking at us and then turned back to their meals, dismissing it all as a lover's spat. O', the irony of it all.

"Never mind? It isn't a big deal? Serena, we've been soulmates since we barely knew how to talk! You are my closest confidant; I tell you everything. This one time you have a secret you won't tell me. I start to doubt our friendship now."

He gathered his things, discarded the sandwich and cookie I made for him. Darien Shields left the café, even the library, ditching his job for the first time in his life.

Marshall was concerned as Darien passed him and angrily erupted outside the library. He mouthed a "What happened?" from across the library entrance.

I could only look, behind the window, as he disappeared, leaving behind a distressed, wounded me.

"I don't really know."

* * *

_I could recall an incident that reminded me of the sweetness of Darien. _

_We were sixteen, and it was the morning of his birthday. I slyly crept from my house to his, to make him pancakes for breakfast. My pancakes weren't the best, but Darien never said a word of complaint, just emptied his plate dry. He made me feel appreciated, one of his many talents that I have come to adore. His parents weren't living with him. They divorced when he was fourteen, on his birthday even. He never said a word to me, but I comforted him nonetheless. He neither wanted to live with his father whom he loathed for unknown reasons, or his mother who wanted nothing to do with him. They allowed him to live in his own house, while they traveled and invested in lovers who barely knew their names. _

_He never seemed bitter about them. Darien could never hate another person. _

"_That's why I love him so much." I laughed to myself._

"_Love who?" I turned around in surprise to find Darien in his (pardon the pun) birthday suit. _

"_Ahhhh!" I screamed from the top of my lungs, panicking, looking for something to cover him with, while stealing glances at his physique. Well-toned, glossy pecs with lean biceps, and my eyes wandered lower, his family jewels. _

_This was my first glance at a naked man, a naked, queer man. _

_I covered my eyes with one hand, however my fingers kept slipping, and I saw more than I could handle through the holes. I threw my apron at his grinning, cocky face. _

"_Here. Cover yourself up, Darien." Once clothed, I took a look at my own face with the mirror hanging on the dining room wall. I looked like an overly excited five-year-old: pigtails mused from sleep, flour on the right cheek, and my face was a very, flushed scarlet color. _

_Damn that boy. He's going to kill me one day with his impulsive behavior._

"_I felt like dressing myself appropriately for my birthday."_

"_I don't know why I bother to make you your birthday breakfast, you ingrate." He gathered me in his arms, bridal style, my clothes and his apron the only thing between us. I blushed from the intimacy. _

"_Oh sweet, sweet Serena, what would I do without you?" He followed his question with a kiss on the cheek._

_Always a brotherly kiss on the cheek, and I live for those warm kisses, even if they meant nothing to him._

"_You would die." I retorted._

_Buried against my hair, he murmured something I didn't catch, but they almost sounded like a "Yes, I would."_

_My dear, dear Darien.

* * *

_

There was only one public swing set in all of San Francisco.

It was rusty, old thing that only accommodated two, and it was on a small patch of dry earth. It wasn't elegant, or extravagant, but it was sacred to the both of us.

We would swing for hours on there, not minding the strange looks we got from dog walkers or neighborhood kids. We would talk, sometimes we wouldn't, but we would swing without inhibitions.

It was sunset, and as I saw his silhouette, contrasting against the mandarin orange of the sun, I felt like I was home again.

I needed to apologize to him, or at least, put his mind at ease. Darien was so precious to me, and no man could replace his role in my life. I walked quietly, but I knew Darien sensed me. He always had that special power. I covered his eyes with my hands, and I whispered "Guess who?" in his ear. I loved his ears; they were so soft and friendly, and I wanted to plant a kiss on the shell of his ear. I refrained however. He caught one hand in his own and planted a gently kiss on my palm.

"Sweet Serena, how could I hurt you? How could I say one mean word against you?"

"Darien, I deserved it. I didn't confide you like I should. You deserved better than my mistreatment."

He weaved his hand with mine, and for a moment, I was astonished by how big his hand was compared to my own. I felt encased in his brotherly love.

"Don't try to redeem me as a good man. I acted like a barbarian. Honestly, I was jealous. I was the only man who preoccupied your thoughts, and you were the only factor I could rely on that would never change. How foolish am I to think you would never take off your rose-colored glasses and find yourself tied down. How selfish am I to keep you as mine."

I embraced him as tight as I could. My arms wound against him. I feared that one day he would leave me, marry a nice, faithful husband that I would come to adore, much to my dismay, and dismiss me as another person he merely knew. I pressed my face against his neck, savoring his earthy, romantic scent.

"I forgive you, Darien. I forgive you. Don't hate me, please."

He laughed which started out as a constrained rumble that I could felt underneath my fingers, and then flew out his throat in a blissful song. Darien threw his head back and laughed without the weight of the world. I could only watch, enraptured in the beauty of Darien. With his hand still holding mine, he swung me around until I was face to face with him. He settled me in between his legs and hugged me. I stared at the top of his head in surprise. His face was buried in my chest, and every time he spoke, I felt a tingle flirt with my spine.

"I could never hate you, my darling bunny. My foolish, naïve bunny. _Mine_."

He looked up and kissed the tip of my nose. I giggled in response. His hand traveled lazily up my back, brushing against the skin of my neck, and reached from the hair clip that kept everything in order. One click, and the nearly-silver locks fell loose.

"There you go, beautiful. Let's swing away." I gathered my skirt and set myself on the swing next to Darien.

As the sun fell across the horizon of San Francisco's buildings, we swung higher and higher than we ever did, watching as our worries slipped away. Even if I didn't reach the sky, Darien made everything all right.

He marveled at her natural beauty, as her hair flew with the wind. It settled gently against her back as she swung away. Her amused chortles made the wordless silence seem like music. With one look, she enthralled him, making his feet hinder his swings, allowing him to stop and simply look. He stopped breathing, and he hoped she didn't notice the remorseful look in his eyes.

"I love you." She says to him.

He didn't say anything, but then again, he didn't need to.


	3. Ice Cream Flavors

_**Brotherly Love**_

_A Sailor Moon Fanfiction_

_By My Birthday Cake

* * *

_

_A/N: I know that I've done this before, and by being the forgetful spaz that I always am, I forgot the password to my previous account due to the fact that I haven't touched my account in a year. Sue me. But I am making it up to you by continuing on with this story. _

_Summary: They say that if you spent enough with someone, you would eventually fall in love. She felt that they lied to her, especially since the man she loved since she was four at Happy Tots Nursery was gay._

I dedicate this chapter to my best friend in the whole mundo, my late-night phone buddy, my favorite reader Reginald.

* * *

_Part Three : Ice Cream Flavors_

_November 25, 2002_

_I can recall this one memory about her. Her of innocence and radiance and bliss. She was joy in the embodiment of a small woman. _

_She was about 11, composed of milk-washed limbs that should have eluded clumsiness, but instead had an ethereal kind of grace, and yards of the finest golden locks that trailed to her dimpled knees. We were in the peak of our ripening. We were crossing the doorway of young adulthood. _

_I remember hiding underneath several pounds of blankets and pillows, lost in a dream world as I slept to the early morning. I heard the door flying open, but I refused to acknowledge it. The scent of daisies and freshly-bathed infants clung to my sheets. I could feel a warm body lying on top of my blankets. I opened one curious eye to find an eye as equally curious. It was her. It was her. _

_"Something horrible and unexplainable as happened. Something that will change the world forever. For you and for me. I'm dying." The funny thing about her statement was that she said it in a tone that lacked fear, that lacked the kind of sorrow that dying people had. It was like someone had told me that today was Christmas, not a moment of death. Of course, when I heard that she was dying, I sat up quickly and stared at her gravely. I felt tears prickling at the edge of my eyelashes. I felt sorrow. I felt helpless. I felt like I failed the world. _

_"This morning, I woke up and I found a stain of blood on my sheets. I'm bleeding. I'm dying. Someone has shot me. I'm not going to last very long, so this means that you have to kiss me because I don't want to die a virgin, and since you're the only man in the building right now, you must kiss me. Hurry. Quick before death takes me." She flung her hair in a dramatic Shakespearian type of way, falling to her side with hair covering her face and my blankets like soft, fragrant snow._

_My silly girl. I chuckled and crawled out of my cage of Egyptian cotton bed sheets. I was walking to her side on all fours, a careful and curious puppy, finding a prize in a lovable kitten. I brushed away a lock of hair that covered her tiny, lush lips. She took a small, subtle breath. She seemed shocked. She doesn't know the effect she has on my 11-year-old body. _

_I'm going to marry this girl. I am. _

_Dear God, she's so sweet. I want to cry. Just a clashing of skin, but the friction and the heat and the love is more than I can bear. _

_I can hear the jazz music of my mother playing on her piano from the other room. The sound is evaporating through the walls. It is a sad sound like a dying love. _

_"I'm dying," she says. I rub my cheek against her soft hair and reach for her small hand. I rub my thumb against her palm, and I can hear her losing her breath. _

_Maybe she really was dying, but I kiss her palm delicately and tell her that she was never going to die. My heartbeat was faster than usual. I felt warm like the sun was painting a masterpiece on my face. I could barely breathe._

_"I think I'm sick. Maybe I'm dying." She lifts her pretty head and looks at me; her brows crumple up like pretty origami paper. I know she's worried. She's a darling. _

_"No, you aren't." She merely says and lies back down. We're holding hands on my bed, looking at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling at 7:00 in the morning._

_They weren't glowing, but we were. Two little soulmate stars getting lost in the universe, running away from the rest of the world, running away from the end of our love.

* * *

_

It was 5 o'clock in the early San Francisco morning. I was sitting outside my kitchen window, the fire-escape pseudo-patio I like to call a refuge, watching the buildings sleep like children. I kept the little black book under my afghan blanket, to keep it hidden from the cold, but for some reason, I was the one who was kept warm. I wondered who he was. I wondered what man in this world was capable of loving a single person as much as he loved this woman, the girl who he couldn't allow himself to have because of taboo reasons, because of incest, because of morals. I wondered why all these memories seem so familiar to me that I could almost see the face of this man in my mind.

"Love? What are you doing out there? It's five in the morning."

Darien.

And I realize then.. that I knew what this man could be feeling. His thoughts of powerlessness, of want, of need, knowing that nothing could be made possible to make him happy, knowing that his happiness wasn't allowed. Mr. Black Book and I should get married. We'd bask in the glow of sadness; sympathy brushing away the tears that wouldn't stop spilling. We'd wake up in the morning with our woes, comforted by the thought of knowing someone can relate.

"Serena. Are you okay?"

I can hear him walking into the fire-escape in his indecent pink robe. He was coming so close. I could feel my skin reacting already. He sat next to me. I can almost imagine his brow furrowing just slightly, his lip a thin line. His arms wrapped around my tiny frame like a cage I never want to escape from.

"My silly girl. You make me worry so much." One kiss on the crown of my head. His kiss feels warm to me. "Do you enjoy it? Is it a game for you? What am I going to do to you so that you'll be kept my Serena forever? Lock you up and throw away the key? Be selfish and drop you in my pocket?" Words that seem so familiar. I swallow the sigh that was building up in my throat and gather my afghan and the book buried in it, walking to the door. I step inside, but only after turning around and kissing him with my eyes.

"Sounds like a plan, my jolly green giant."

After that, I proceeded to get ready for my part-time waitressing job across the street, and for the first time in months and years, I didn't wait for Darien to walk me to work.

* * *

_  
"Darien, what does it feel like to be the last dinosaur on Earth?" _

_He turns his head to me, bewildered at first, but now pensive in a way only he can be. We were lying down on the grass of his fragrant backyard. It was night, a few minutes after dinner. We were both fourteen, so young and so very ripe._

_"It must be sad, sad in a way where you thought that you've accomplished everything you could possible want, but in the end, achieve nothing. Sure, you've survived. Sure, you watched your enemies die, but at the same time, you saw your father die and your sister, maybe your wife and your child. You witnessed as everything that meant something a week ago become virtually nothing in the scale of the universe. And in your loneliness, you start to die. You realize you're not dying because something touchable is killing you off, but because the state of being just one single living cell in a dead body kills you." _

_I step on his stomach as I walk to the backdoor to his house. He stands up and brushes away the pieces of grass that composed of our grass fight a minute ago. Darien chases after me, his hand grabbing my bicep. He leans close to my ear and whispers, "The answer doesn't satisfy you?"_

_I shiver before throwing him a cocky look and reply, "I just asked the question, hoping it might lead to a Barney joke. Thanks for spoiling the good fun, Plato." _

_He smirks and stands still for a minute. Even I stopped walking to watch him. "Would you rather have Mr. Funny or Mr. Intelligent as a boyfriend?"_

_"I would like Mr. Make Me Happy."_

_He locks arms with me and proceeded on skipping. I turn to look at him, briefly, eyes glazed. He smiles a dimpled smile._

_"I would like Mr. Make Me Happy, too, hun. Me too." Realization hit me once again, and I grabbed a handful of grass and smeared it all over his face. _

_"You are such a gay fucker!" Before he could catch me, I noticed an equally dirty hand of grass and bolted as fast as I could to his yard. He grabbed my pigtail and sent the dirt-and-grass ball down my shirt. _

_"Why, thank you. To repay your kind, kind words, here's something to make sure people won't mistaken you for a boy." _

_That last afternoon, we spent it chasing each other with grass, neither minding the police threats from the neighbor nor the fact that we looked like hippies. Maybe Darien minded that he looked like a hippie. _

_He once said hippies were atrocious sex people with four kinds of herpes._

_I told him he was exaggerating._

_They had at most two kinds.

* * *

_

"Can I have a cup of coffee? Hello? Coffee?"

Another reverie at Luke's Diner. I was just standing there, holding a coffee pot, expecting people to not ask for coffee by some chance of a miracle. I pour this man his coffee, ignoring the hospitality of smiling at the customer, like a robot waitress. He notices this, and I know because he speaks up.

"Hi. Something's wrong?" Odd question to ask a stranger. So I finally do him a favor, and I look at his face. He is a narrow, almost feminine bone structure, something we both share ironically. Dark hair, the so-black-that-it's-blue kind of dark. Sharp blue eyes. Warm, inviting lips. He looked like hell with wings. Updated, but vintage attire. He was no business man. He was no homeless. This man was caught between both on a league on his own.

"Sit with me."

I knew he could serve as trouble in the future, but instead, I sit down in the booth seat across from him. I pour him more coffee.

I don't think he wanted anymore.

"This is not a date, nor is a sign that I am interested in you romantically or sexually or otherwise." He arches an eyebrow like the Casanova of a french film. He opens his mouth to say something, and for some reason, I didn't think he said anything, until he repeated it twice.

"You like to daydream, don't you?" I smile. A "I do what I can" flutters on the roof of my mouth. I decide against it.

"What's your name?" I shake my head in a coy sort of way, not wanting to play the game his way. "I don't have a name when it comes to strangers. Not unless you want to pay for it."

I sound like a prostitute, or a lady caller. I don't care. It was fun playing games with him. It was fun knowing I can win for once.

"Let's say that you stay for the entire day until it closes, ordering a cup of coffee every hour so you won't get kicked out. If you can do that, then maybe I'll leave you my name before my shift is over. Just my name."

The day passes. I served a dozens of faceless strangers, the robot waitress I am, but I watched him through my peripheral vision. I saw him through closed eyes when he thought I was taking a brief nap. The scenery outside changed like theatre backdrop, but he did not budge. He sat there, glued to his seat by some unmistakable invisible force. The sky would fall, but he sit as diligently as he does, neglecting work or play or other women for a single two-syllable name.

Everyone leaves. I take his numerous dirty coffee cups, all of them empty. I come back in my jacket, ready to just sprint and leave him. But I don't.

I sit down across from him and take his hand. He looks at me surprised, weary, restless, human. I place a restaurant napkin on his palm.

"I lied. I didn't hold up to my promise. I gave you my phone number." He stares at the napkin, and then lifts his head to stare at me. For some reason unknown to me, I don't feel uncomfortable with his eyes resting on me. I smile again.

"Serena. Your name is worth 8 cups of coffee."

I stand up and walk to the door, turning over my shoulder to speak to him. "Something you need to learn about me. I'm worth more than 8 cups of coffee. That's why you're going to buy me ice cream."

He followed, deserting his beloved booth spot for a thing sweeter than ice cream.

The unspoken beginning of a friendship.

* * *

_We were in the pitch-dark night. The window curtains were drawn closed. It was winter. _

_I couldn't see the hand in front of my face, the one itching to accidentally touch his cheek. Darien was awake with me. _

_"I am jealous." _

_"Why?" I wanted to hear his reason. I leaned against my hands, propped up by my elbows. I was staring at the dark space where he was. _

_"Because.. I don't have a reason why. Jealousy is a feeling, and it's something you feel, not think." I paused, took a breath. I needed to reason this out. _

_"Then.. why do you feel that way?"_

_"Because you aren't ugly. And they know that."_

_"Who knows that?"_

_"People who keep butterflies for their collection." Even more Darien metaphors and philosophies. What would butterflies have to do with me?_

_"Are you one of those people?"_

_I can hear him playing with his sheets. I can see the shades of darkness moving unrestlessly in front of my eyes. _

_With the voice smaller than his age, there was a mumbled "I'm not sure" and silence. _

_He feigned his sleep. I knew. I didn't get much sleep that night either.

* * *

_

"Prune ice cream with mango bits. I'd say that's the homosexual flavor of the ice cream world."

Ice cream during a cold night. We were walking up and down sidewalks. He walked, so diligently, like a soldier, nodding once and a while, to give me assurance he was still alive. When I talked, he was completely still, the perfect quintessential conversation listener. He was a rather secretive person himself, but at the same time, so loud, and every bit, the normal heterosexual man. _I could get used to this_, I thought to myself. I gave him the first real look of the night, and he returned an equally intensified look.

"You're a lonely one, aren't you?" He spoke first, and instead of lying like always, I nodded. "But it's a different kind of lonely-girl-syndrome. Throughout the entire night, you were preoccupied with the thought of someone or something else, and no matter how many jokes and general information I fed you, I wasn't that man. I am simply a stranger, and you won't allow yourself to let me be anything else." I winced. His words hit home none too gently.

We were in front of my apartment. I was leaning against a mailbox, puffing small clouds that disappeared into the cold bleak air. He watched me; his hand holding a dripping cone of half-melted Chocolate Decadence. Two strides of his long legs landed him intimately brushing against the front of my coat. He was so very close, the closest any man besides Darien has ever gotten in my life. His voice vibrated through his layers of clothing.

"Use me, please. I sound like a man-whore. I know that you love this idiotic excuse of a man, but maybe, I can convince you to give me a chance. Dispose me when you want, but give me a chance to make you forget."

"I don't even know your name." It was true. His name is still lost in translation somewhere in his mind. I took a cautious step and looked up at his profile. He was a handsome man. He spoke, and the brief scent of chocolate wafted. "You can call me whatever you want." I smiled knowingly. He really was my man-whore.

"I want your name to be the one that your mother gave to you." I took a plunge, pushing away the memory of Darien's grinning face to the back of my mind. I placed cold lips to cold lips, and chocolate and strawberry clashed to make the saccharine-sweet clandestine rendezvous. He tasted of chocolate, of normality, of promise, of security, but mostly, of something attainable.

"Seiya. My mother gave me 'Seiya.'" I opened the door to my apartment, and before releasing my breath, I gave him my goodbye. I leaned against my door and shut my eyes tightly. The tart taste of prune ice cream with mango bits in my mouth lingered like a Saturday morning, but now, it had an aftertaste of sweet chocolate.

The combination hated each other and left me with the desire to brush my teeth.

The fine silhouette of a man gazed out the window, surrounded by the eerie darkness of the apartment. He cradled a bleeding fist and allowed copious tears to land on his wounds. A dent with maroon stains on the wall kept his company as he continued to cry.

"They've finally noticed you're not ugly, and I'm at a loss of what to do."

He remained in the dark, even as the door struggled to open, and hoped to God that she doesn't find him. There is no way in the world he could explain why tears and blood liter their apartment. There is no way in the world he can face her with his broken self.

The man sashayed to his room and closed it tight. He can hear her voice calling for him, but he pretends to sleep. He says one more thing before the sandman takes him away.

"Happy birthday to me."


	4. Peter Pan

**Brotherly Love**

_A Sailor Moon Fanfiction_

_By Doughnuts of Miroku_

* * *

A/U: Wow, I haven't written in a long time. Actually, this chapter is not the fabrication of something I written recently. This was a chapter that was not posted when I wrote it nearly three years ago. Well, here it is. I have even the beginnings of the fifth chapter somewhere. Somehow, my ex-boyfriend reminded me recently that these still exist in my desktop. He was an avid fan.

* * *

_Part Four : Peter Pan_

We always had this fascination for Peter Pan.

Every year since we first watched the 1954 adaptation with Mary Martin, we hosted the annual "Peter Pan Movie Night" in which we became the only two participants in our entire block and Nester, the one seventh grader in P.S. 118 who hasn't stopped wetting his bed. Two year ago, we were the only two in a dirty, empty movie theatre, watching the trailers before P.J. Hogan's Peter Pan. It was our least and most favorite version of Peter Pan because, as the movie reviewers said, Wendy Darling and Peter Pan were playing two sexed up teenagers in a pornographic stage of infinite places to have orgies. Putting comedy aside, it was the reality of the relationship that touched both of us.

I was Wendy Darling, the uptight heroine that just needed a reason to fly far, far, far away from the Desperate Housewives kind of lifestyle her parents were living. He was Peter Pan, the one boy that never really grew up because he was afraid of the disappointment of adulthood. We lived the life of a Lost Boy. We played reckless games and neglected the entire experience of growing up together. Despite our constant companionship, we would never seriously admit that we needed each other. We were children who lived one day at a time, but we were more like adults in the sense that we were the other's life source.

And in the end, Peter let Wendy return to the ordinary life. She became a woman and married, had a few kids, lived a small, domestic legacy, and most likely died. How about Peter? Well, Peter was eternally young, eternally foolish, and undeniably lonely.

That's why P.J. Hogan's Peter Pan is our least and most favorite version of Peter Pan because it was all TOO real.

Love wasn't enough to make Peter want to become a man for Wendy. It was too close to home.

_I dreamed of a wet street corner and a park bench in our favorite place in the world: home, sweet, nostalgic home. There were two children: a fragile girl with wispy, soft butter-golden hair and a coltish boy with graceful angles._

"_They forgot about me again." It was the boy who spoke through the haziness of a dream. He hiccupped a few times and inserted a sob occasionally. She kneeled on the park bench just to reach his face and took two cupped palms to cover his swimming eyes._

"_Close your eyes." Little fingers graced over closed lids to "just make sure." She stood on the bench and danced silly, made beautiful monster faces, and put a wad of spit on his favorite sneakers. Yet, he sat still like an aged mountain range. She settled down and placed a birthday hat on his head and hers._

_She held a small, pink cupcake with one unlit candle. She apologized for not being old enough to light the candle and make his birthday cake authentic._

"_Happy Birthday!"_

_She tried to feed him with frosting on her finger and met his nose instead. He was unforgiving and smeared the entire cupcake top in her hair. They played pink cupcake aliens the whole afternoon, basking in their birthday fun and the setting sun. Even, their shadows kissed once. He quieted her by taking her hand and leading her to a park Aspen. She thought they were playing another game, but his face spoke otherwise._

"_Don't ever forget me. Don't you dare! Because if you do, I'll push you in the dirt like this." He pushes her with as much force as a six-year-old can muster. She lands pitifully in the grass but doesn't cry. She's only five, but she knows he just needs a little love._

_He's being embraced by the girl who only comes up to his chest, and he doesn't understand why his chest feels tight and warm like an asthma attack. He stares down at the halo that graces the top of her head, and when she lifts her head to smile at him, his heart is heavy._

_His feelings are making his arms itch. Maybe he has chicken pox?_

_She breaks the hug and drifts off towards the sea of grass. It's beginning to get dark, but he can tell where she is because she gives off a pure golden light he never noticed before._

"_I love you." She turns around and stares at him quizzically. He repeats himself, this time more confidently._

"_I've never heard my parents say things like that, but my grandpa does. My grandpa likes to tell Grandma when they think they're alone, but it's silly because they're never alone. But he says it every day, more than once. Grandma is my grandpa's best friend. They need each other." He stumbles towards her, but he manages to reach her side._

"_It's like that with me. I need to see you every day, so don't forget me."_

"_Pinky promise. I don't like dirt anyway. It sort of hurts." She's so sweet, not like birthday frosting that can't be eaten everyday, but like bedtime milk, the kind that you take to make you strong._

_He brings his thoughts to a halt when he spots her styling her frosted hair to stick up into two ears._

"_Look! I'm a bunny." She hops away, and he follows down the bunny trail._

There was something forlorn and romantic about a man whose heart bleeds so profusely that it spills out of the pages and into the lap of a lonely reader.

Darien was absent, and the apartment seemed much bigger when empty. I sat on an unkempt bed, plagued by this nagging emotion inside of me. The little black book was all that could distract me.

_December 26, 1989_

_Her room was littered with discarded gift wrap and empty glasses of apple cider. Her tiny Christmas tree waited patiently in the corner to be taken down in July. She treaded in Rudolph wrapping paper as she made her way towards my direction. Her cheeks were slightly pink, and her breath strongly foul. Nothing beats a little (or a lot) Christmas booze and I cast an amused glance at the overwhelming yellow bow on the top of her head. Not even a wasted fifteen-year-old girl with a heart too big for her body. _

_She swung both arms around me and hung like a Charlie Brown Christmas ornament. I feel weak in the knees, and hormones have nothing to do with it. My arms are itching again, and they wrap around her Grecian hips slowly, tasting and memorizing. My skin burns a smoldering fire, and my breathing becomes uneven. _

"_Santa hates me. I'm obviously on his notorious Naughty List. What other reason could there be for why I never get what I've wanted since I was a little, little, little, little, little.. ant." She falls on her queen-sized bed and begins to make snow angels out of her linen. Her stomach peeks from her shifting sweater. I turn away from her midriff to recompose myself. _

"_Ants are funny things. They're so small, and no one cares if they end up dead in your lemonade. Then, you find one on the table, and you toy with their lives until you end it with the blunt end of your fork. It's doesn't really matter to anyone if they die. They're much too small to be alive." She curls up on her bedside—the left side—and lies there like a corpse. _

"_I just want to be loved by someone. Someone who needs me like water or air or God." _

_I need her. Can you hear my thoughts? I need YOU. I curl up next to her and kiss her neck in greeting. She'll never remember anything of tonight. I'm free to love her the way I've always wanted to. She turns over and holds herself slightly above me; hair toying on the surface of my cheek. I stare at the hair grazing my face. I bring it to my nose and take the clean smell of her baby shampoo in. I skim the strand over my eyes and to my lips. _

_  
I will always remember this perfect minute until the day I die without her. _

"_Never leave me. You're all I've got. Don't hurt my heart." Her whispers didn't evade my hearing, and I nurse the back of her neck and bring her head down towards mine. Her body sinks perfectly into mine, aligning like the last piece of a puzzle. There was no kissing. I press the side of my face into the crook of her shoulder and sighed. _

_There would be no kissing because she was asleep. I smile to myself and kiss her milky shoulder. Okay, maybe, just one little kiss. _

_  
Merry Christmas. _

BANG! BANG! The sound of fist colliding with the door interrupted my train of thought. I could not shake off the familiarity of this entry or the brief flashbacks of the warmest skin and the scent of pine. Darien forfeits his previous attempts at etiquette and prances his way on my distraught bed. He smiles knowingly and reaches over to hold my right hand.

"Someone got a little midnight snack with a gorgeous man last night, and darling, I'm sure it wasn't me for the first time. I'm so happy for you, and relieved actually. You now have someone to take care of you, and I won't have to worry about leaving anymore." My stomach churned in anticipation. I barely mute him out as I concentrate on his facial expression.

His mouth, tense in shape and wrinkled in false hilarity. His eyes, the color of a tempest, of heartbreak. I wanted to smooth out the disturbed nerve above his right eyebrow, but I allowed him to continue his little charade until he said,

"I'm moving to New York in a month. I've accepted a prominent job with Esquire magazine. It's not Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, but it's enough to get by. I can't live on donations forever, love."

My face spoke volumes of heartbreak, and no matter how many attempts of "big-girl-bravery" I tried to enforce upon the situation, I just wanted to break down, cry angrily, stomp, bring down the roof, curl into a corner, and weep maudlin tears. No more cartwheel tournaments at the beach, food poisoning treatment in the ER, jukebox dancing after hours, overwhelming jealousy, bittersweet bliss. No more _joie de vie _in our little apartment by the bay. For the first time, we were being separated, by an entire country nonetheless.

"I'm so… happy for you." I could barely choke out the words, and even then, the tears in my mouth made the words taste bitter. My whole body was quaking, but the earth was not shaking. With my eyes downcast, I could see his fists clenching powerfully, released for a moment to grasp some stability, then closed again in fury and tension. He must be angry with me.

He must think I'm envious of his success. He must be glad that he's moving a million miles from where I am, sick of my immaturity and dependency. I'm only envious of his capability to not love me; it makes his movement towards lone gay bachelor status a lot easier to take in. Unlike my vulnerable, love-sick heart which collapses every time it does one miserable emotional push-up.

"I'm leaving in a month to tie in loose ends and pack my life in a tiny U-Haul box."

He leaves with an angry sound of wooden door meeting diabolical collision with the doorway. His temporary departure stretches a tiny gap in my heart, and the sadness and the pain that collected throughout the years just seeped through and found their way to a soaked pillow.

I held the pillow as if I was hanging off the edge of the world. The hurt didn't subside, but sleep pitied me and I forgot for a few hours what it felt like to lose your heart.

_The way she sways her hips when she dances in a dim room and isn't aware I'm sitting not too far from her, drunk as hell and pretending to care what the blonde next to me is saying._

_It's the way she bites her lip when she hesitates on an impulsive thought and it makes me want to bite her lip and make the decision for her. _

_It's the tiny ways she expresses her gratitude by making little "thank you so much for the waffle" notes when we eat breakfast at the same diner every Sunday because we must keep holy the Sabbath even though I'm never religious and she's much too sweet to have someone dictating to her how to be a good person when she is the epitome of it. _

_The way she nurtures me when I've got a winter cold when all I'm really doing is pretending to be ill just so she can keep my warm on the sofa._

_It's the tiny little dimple on the corner of her smile that makes her face charming and sunny and bright._

_It's how her favorite color is yellow because it reminds her to be optimistic every single minute of her life. _

_The way she leaves the toothpaste cap on the floor because she believes it cuts into her life just to unscrew the "damn little cap that no one cares for." _

_The way her socks never match even though she has all the pairs. _

_It's the way her hair smells after she showers and how hours later she still smells fresh like laundry or clean linen or the Snuggles bear._

_The way her hips have a tiny seductive sway because she's a woman and she's doesn't even know it. _

_It's how she never snores in her sleep but I can always see the little drool spot on her bed right before breakfast. _

_The way she looks at me in a crowded room and make silly faces like I was a child, but in reality, she just wants me to laugh and be myself around other people._

_The way she makes watching television on the sofa enjoyable in silence and in witty commentary._

_It's the way she loves me in a quiet acceptance and in a cheerful disposition, but there's something broken in her eyes._

_It's the way I look at her sometimes, when I'm not aware I'm being too honest with my face, and I let her see how much I hunger for her and how much it hurts me whenever our elbows touch and I can't pull her aside and whisper that I adore her. _

_The way she looks at me after like a deer caught at gunpoint, and God damn, she still doesn't know that I would sell my soul for one honest kiss._

_It's the way I know that I want to wake up to her sweet face every morning of my life until the day I won't wake up to see another morning._

_The reasons why I love her, an uncompleted, unsatisfactory list, by a man of desperate want and need and hunger._

I found it, ripped out and crumpled into a ball at least twice and flattened out more times than it can remember, wedged between two pages in the little black book. My fingers skimmed through every crease and tear stain like a prayer.

Wow. He knows how it is to love, love, love until you have your heart cut up in little distorted shapes and left out to dry.

I need to get out of here, the confining walls, the apartment and the memories, his post-it endearments on the fridge, the sofa pillows he sewed together out of our old baby sweaters, the soft words whispered to my ear when I'm half-asleep, and that inviting smile when he's just happy.

I pick up a discarded napkin and dial an unfamiliar number.

"Hello?"

"Can I see you again?" A pause, a thought being formed.

"I'm free on Saturday."

"No, right now. At the diner, please." No pause this time.

"I understand." Click. Dial tone. End of conversation. I sprung up to the coats' closet and grabbed my red peacoat. Every action was based on instinct and emotion, and I ran like a game of tag with Sadness. The wind felt cool against a face of wet tears, and I hugged my coat closer, still cold.

The sound of the bell against the top of the door warmly invited me in the diner, but my eyes only sought for his face. He was sitting at our table. I climbed on the table top and embraced him with both arms, desperately and madly.

"He's leaving me. I knew this day would come eventually, but I thought 'eventually' meant 'never.' Please, make the pain go away. Please. I'm not ready."

He lost himself in the crook of my neck and held me close. Comfort. He took my hair in his hands, clutching and caressing, and held our foreheads together. His eyes stared at mine, and I knew I could forget for a minute, just one blessed moment. I closed my eyes and felt his lips capture all the tears that had fallen to my chin, my cheekbones, my temples, and …

… a soft brushing against my lips.

I wanted to run away from the person who I ran to, and I knew that if I did I would find myself back to square one and into the mercy of the one who keeps me awake at night. So, I settled into his arms and watched the traffic of people outside the diner window.

My gaze walked into the indifferent face of Darien Shields, cold, expressionless, as he stood mannequin-stiff with his hands in his pockets.

Wrapped around his wrist was the string attached to a red balloon.

I closed my eyes, willing myself to not feel an ounce of regret, but I gave in and bled internally. I blinked once, twice, and Darien was gone.

The balloon ascended into the flighty clouds and the iridescent blue sky like the holy mother.

It was an irrelevant speck of red marker on the divine masterpiece sky, but it was mine and now it's God's.

I lost him.


End file.
